The old lighthouse had stood at the edge of the cliff for over a hundred years, its white paint chipped and faded by decades of salt wind and relentless rain. Nobody lived there anymore. The last keeper had left sometime in the 1970s, leaving behind a rusted kettle, three wool blankets, and a logbook filled with careful handwriting that nobody had ever bothered to read.

Children from the nearby village used to dare each other to climb the iron stairs to the top. Most made it halfway before turning back. The stairs groaned under any weight, and the darkness between floors smelled of damp and old metal.